


Now That He Knew

by GrapieBee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of italics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of executive disfunction, These two love each other very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 12:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrapieBee/pseuds/GrapieBee
Summary: It began, as it usually did for Aziraphale, when he realized he wasn’t completely in love with his usual morning cup of tea.





	Now That He Knew

**Author's Note:**

> Please be safe, whoever may read this and need to hear those words.
> 
> =====================
> 
> A great many thanks to my best, dearest friend Sarah (@ sarahssideblog on tumblr) for being a wonderful beta reader for this piece!!!!!

It began, as it usually did for Aziraphale, when he realized he wasn’t completely in love with his usual morning cup of tea. 

He hadn’t forgotten it in favor of getting lost in some lovely novel, nothing like that. He’d simply brought it to his lips, inhaled the sweet aroma of a particularly invigorating homeblend Anathema had given him, sipped it and...nothing. 

No spreading warmth that started at the chest and stretched to his fingertips. No subtle citrus and clove flavors clinging to his tongue. No pops of endearment* dancing across his palate. Just nothing.

[*They were there in every single one of Anathema’s teas he had gotten the pleasure of trying over the course of nearly a year of knowing her. It was an affectionate sort of love they had for one another, as natural as any sort of friendship could have formed. They shared an admiration of the written word, of the odd and the old things of the world, and both had a habit of being more than they appeared. Kindred spirits, one might call the pair of them.]

He brushed the telltale sign aside as best he could, unwilling to acknowledge it for what it was, and left the mug in its place for the remainder of his meal. He hoped, from the very deepest parts of his being, that this wouldn’t take, that maybe _ this _ time it would pass him by.

When he accidentally spent an entire morning, about a week later, reading without so much as a rumble from his corporation about getting some breakfast, he knew it would only get worse from there.

His heart sank deeply at that realization. 

_ ‘But why now?’ _ He wondered to himself.

It made absolutely no sense. He and Crowley had _ their _ side now, truly free of infernal or ethereal forces. They’d faced the wrath of Hell and the judgement of Heaven, had come away not just alive, but absolutely victorious. The two of them had _ been honest with each other about how they felt _for hell’s sake.

He should be ecstatic, content, happy. Not on some well worn path to one of these stupid _ moods _ he got into.

Aziraphale gently closed his book, pulled the small glasses from his face, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. 

He despised that this happened to him from time to time. 

He’d never gotten any clarification as to whether this was something all angels endured or if it was maybe just another thing that set him apart from his other ethereal siblings. All things considered, he never found the right time to ask previously and was certainly not about to ask now.

It was always guaranteed to overcome him after some tragedy befell mankind. Or, on occasion, after a personal loss. Or sometimes, for no reason at all*.

[* The year following The Great War had not been kind to Aziraphale, or at least what he could recall of it (his memory tended to act strangely when he got like this). The month after he had decided to give in to Crowley’s request for Holy Water had been numb and peculiar. The most recent example he had of this happening was about two decades ago in the late 80s and had been prompted by a rainy day. Crying? About the rain? In London? Even he knew it was ridiculous.]

The first time it had creeped up on him was just after the waters of the Flood had fully receded and the world was drying itself off. He’d done his duty, had seen to it that every last creature and human on that ark made it safely through the long, _ long _days and nights at sea.

He’d been given an accolade, of sorts, for making sure everything went so smoothly. Been given time to himself for a few days, for a job well done*, even.

Not that angels ever took vacation or personal days.

[*It made him feel ill to think about. Being awarded, when humans had died all around him in the _hundreds of thousands, _just didn’t feel right. Noah and his family had been in the main cabins overhead as the water had started to rise high enough to frighten those trapped outside. Aziraphale had been below, in the lower levels, with the animals. The humans on the ark hadn’t been there with him to hear the first banging wails for mercy and help against the heavy wooden hull of the ship.]

But, as Gabriel was kind enough to point out to him, there weren’t nearly as many humans as there used to be for Aziraphale to look after. That giving him the chance to see what that part of the world looked like all clean and new would be good for him.

It was not.

It was the first time he ever felt exhaustion that no miracle to his corporation seemed to even remotely quell. It was like something had crawled into his chest without his notice, just to tug at the core of his being at all times of the day. To hang there, like a heavy, cold shackle over his heart, pulling him down towards despair.

Aziraphale remembered deciding that, perhaps, somewhere to lie down for a while might be nice while he sorted himself out.

He eventually found a cave, miracled a bed of straw and a small fire that would keep said cave at a comfortable temperature at all times. Without any of the delicate manners that he was so well known for by anyone who kept his company, Aziraphale had gracelessly collapsed into the straw and wept.

And wept.

And wept.

When no more tears would come, not for the Earth or the countless lives just suddenly _ gone _ from the world, Aziraphale slept. 

For the very first time in his existence, Aziraphale slept.

He didn’t dream and never dreamt anytime after. It was as simple as if he had closed his eyes, breathed for a few measured beats, and opened them once again.

When he did, the weight in his chest had lessened, by leaps and bounds. He still felt the normal sorrow that came with such a huge loss of life, true. But the beyond bone deep exhaustion he had felt before was gone.

When he left the cave, he found that only a few hours or so had passed, much to his chagrin. In those days, it was expected for an angel to _ always _ be watchful, _ always _ be ready to lend a hand. Aziraphale had felt guilt, in that moment, for allowing himself the comfort of crying in peace.

The angel opened his eyes and released the bridge of his nose, bringing himself out of millennia old memories. No need to ruminate on purpose, that would come naturally in the next month or so.

“It will be fine. You’ll be _ just _fine.” He whispered to himself, the words hollow even to his own ears.

It was never fine. Not really. Sometimes, his moods weren’t as devastating or didn’t last as long, but they were still an ugly part of his routine on Earth.

He’d tried to do his own research of sorts on the human emotional pantheon, time and time again in his many years. Partly because it was his sacred duty to understand and help the suffering of mankind. Partly to satiate his own curiosity. His own wondering, his own hoping, that he wasn’t the only thing in all of creation that experienced exhaustion like that.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one, which was something of a relief. But really only just.

Humans, Aziraphale knew, had the capacity for both great Love and great Hate. Time and time again, for the things that humanity could not understand or feared, they seemed to prefer to show their hatred. He’d watched as the seasons marched on and bore witness to the ways mankind reviled those of them who were hurting from something no one else could see or feel. Aziraphale did his best to fill in the gaps, to help those that society let slide into those cracks. 

He did what he could, but it really wasn’t ever enough.

To be fair, or as fair as one could be when thinking about the duality of man, humans really didn’t have a decent handle on mental illnesses themselves until well into the later half of the 20th century.

When the first DSM book was published in 1952, Aziraphale went out the very same day he had learned about it and acquired a copy. He tore into the information like a dog to its first bone, cataloguing the terms, thoughts treatments, anything that he could use to help.

For all of his research and time spent with humans, a part of him knew he would not find the answers he really sought after. Because, yes, it was important to know that humans could be sad and concerned to the point of being sick from it. It was important to understand the signs and symptoms so he could be of help.

But _he _wasn’t human.

All the information Aziraphale had about this kind of persistent sadness pertained to humans. Human brains, human bodies, human souls. 

Surely, none of it would apply to something Ethereal like him. He wasn’t _ supposed _ to need rest, wasn’t _ supposed _ to be capable of despair similar to a mortal’s. All these things he wasn’t _ supposed _ to do be able to do, yet seemed to be a part of him, just as naturally as turning to sunlight was a part of a flower.

It just_ was_, time and time again. 

Aziraphale wanted to understand, wanted to know why this happened to him. But he didn’t. He didn’t understand and, he thought somewhat painfully, he wasn’t sure he ever would. It wasn’t like anyone would be writing a DSM book for those of the non-mortal disposition anytime soon.

So, he’d dealt with it on his own, for millennia, as best as he could.

There was a moment, as Aziraphale sat there dreading what was to come, where he considered calling Crowley. He considered calling his demon, asking him to come for a visit, to come sit with him and help figure this nonsense out, once and for all. 

But, a stronger, more firm part of himself felt that it was so inherently _ selfish _ to ask for further help*, that he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask more of Crowley.

Not for something like this.

[*Within the first week of their ‘forced retirement’, Crowley made it a point to get Aziraphale a cell phone. Mostly to keep in touch with each other should anything go wrong when they were apart. Fortunately, Crowley had been kind enough to spend the better part of a day and a half in the shop with him, making sure he understood how to use it. Aziraphale had, for once, taken to the change rather quickly. If only because Crowley had shown him online _ book clubs _ and taught him how to post and respond. It wasn't just the cellphone though; it was also the millions of other times Crowley had helped when the angel hadn’t even known he’d needed it. He knew that it would be unfair of him to ask for more help.]

Aziraphale hated his own company when he was deep in one of these moods. _ Hated it. _And angels weren’t meant to hate anything! He’d found that, usually, sleep was the easiest way to weather these storms. And he hated that too, that the only way he had to cope with this, was to simply not be present.

He sighed again, his fingers gently gliding over his book’s well-loved cover and put it aside.

It was going to get worse and he desperately did not want anyone seeing him like that. Not Crowley, not Anathema, not even the plants his demon had all around the shop if he could help it.

So, he figured, it would be best if he used what energy and drive he still had for visiting his friends and his beloved partner. He would see them now, as much as he could, so that they wouldn’t even notice when he went to sleep off that heavy feeling for a day or so, like he’d done so many times before.

It would be _ just _ fine.

===============

It was definitely _ not _ fine.

The anniversary of the Apocalypse-That-Couldn’t had come and gone, along with Adam’s birthday.

The warm summer air slowly began to shift to something cooler and Aziraphale continued To Do His Best. His store was still well kept, but he continued to reduce the ridiculous hours even further. He stopped taking breakfast altogether. His reading interest took more of a turn towards the macabre and dark. He had less to say when he was with his loved ones.

He still found moments of real happiness in every day, though.

He found beauty in sitting next to Crowley as he slept, watching the red of his hair brighten and bloom in the early morning light.

He found delight in listening to Adam talk about his adventures with The Them and Dog, marveling at how kind someone so young could be.

He found joy in quietly observing Anathema and Newton be playful with one another when he visited, their love for one another apparent and heartwarming.

The world continued to spin on its axis as he slowed down, quietly, internally, that cold, familiar shackle starting to close around his chest each and everyday. 

Just a bit more, he found himself thinking.

He could give just a little bit more of himself to his family, before he’d have to lay down for a bit.

He visited Anathema at least twice a week, young Newton nervously trying to exchange pleasantries with him along the way, even after all this time. He still drank the cup of tea she always had ready for him when he arrived, but stopped asking for a second or third.

He and Crowley shared a meal usually at least once a day. They drank deep red wines, learned how to waltz, and smiled together.

But as the days turned into weeks, his favorite foods lost their appeal, their charm, to the point that he now only ate when he had to*. 

The wine began to settle too heavily in his stomach when he drank, the tannins like wet ash in his mouth.

It began to feel like a chore, being around humans; even the ones he loved so dearly. 

Slowly, steadily, it eventually became that all he had left that _didn’t_ feel like some sort of work, was to sit in his favorite spot as Crowley talked and pondered and wondered out loud, and enjoy a good book while listening.

[*Usually when in the company of others, like Anathema or Crowley or that one time Adam visited with some leftover muffins for some reason. Otherwise, if left to his own devices, Aziraphale wasn’t interested in a single morsel of food.]

There came a morning, exactly two and a half months to the day since the incident with the tea, that Aziraphale realized he couldn’t think of a single book in his collection he wanted to read.

_That _ was what finally made the bottom of the angel’s stomach drop out completely. 

There was always, _ always _ a line he wanted to revisit; a story he’d like to refresh his memory on; a poem he wanted to recite under his breath. He had adored the written word since its creation. It was the first thing he had _ enjoyed _ that Heaven had not told him directly was Enjoyable.

With hands shaking, Aziraphale clasped them together as if in prayer, bowed his head slightly, and pressed his knuckles to his forehead as he closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, trying everything he could to calm the millions of nerves that had poured into the pit of his stomach in an instant.

When he lost his interest in books, in his beautiful and well maintained collection of words, that usually meant he was just a step away from needing to sleep.

He and Crowley had a dinner planned later in the day and the thought alone filled him with dread. Panic even. Though, it wasn’t the demon that was the issue; he would never be an issue.

It was the thought of having to be presentable, about having to be around people at_ all, _ and that thought made him swallow heavily. He was an angel, a Principality for goodness’ sake. He was literally _made_ to be around people.

And there was literally nothing more he would be loathed to do at that moment.

He took a steadying breath and finally unclasped his hands, shaking them out. He would be fine. It was just one dinner. But as the morning hours crawled by and dinner approached closer with every second, his almost-panic and deep exhaustion mixed into a truly ugly concoction. Before he knew it, his body began to feel heavy, like his bones had turned to lead and-

Oh.

Right.

That was that, then.

He was at the absolute end of his rope. Aziraphale could give the world no more of himself.

That realization turned the nerves in his stomach ice cold, the feeling left to spread from there until his whole corporation felt numb and empty.

Kicking off his shoes and flicking a wrist, several things in his shop changed at once.

For one, there was now a huge sign over the door reading “** _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE_ **”. 

For two, there was now a large, plush couch with an equally impressive large, plush blanket draped over the back of it, centered in the inner sanctum of his shop.

For three, the door would be firmly Locked until he woke up. No one needed to see him crying in his sleep*. Or try to rob the place.

[*He suspected he did this, as there was always proof of tear tracks left on his face when he woke up, even if he had drifted to sleep completely dry eyed.]

Aziraphale blinked and was clothed in his preferred outfit for such an unfortunate occasion; a gray t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants. Ugly as sin, unflattering as hell, but comfortable and, most importantly, _ easy._

He all but fell into the awaiting pillows, pulled the blanket from where it was draped, and curled up under it. 

Aziraphale knew he should call Crowley. Should text him. Should do _ something. _ But, truthfully, he was done trying to pretend he felt normal.

Aziraphale was just...he was just too damned _tired _ to even try anymore.

Curling into the blanket further, the angel finally, _ finally _ succumbed to the weight that had been pulling at his chest for weeks and allowed himself to cry.

===============

**Voice Mailbox: 11 New Messages, 39 Saved Messages**

Thank you for calling_ [*Loud successive beeps* Crowley, is this right? *muffled voice in background* Peachy. This is Aziraphale, please leave a message after the beep. *beat of silence* Now how do I hang up Cro-], _they can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep.

_ *BEEP* _

**First New Message:**

_ Aziraphale, it’s me. What happened to dinner tonight? If you really didn’t feel up for that new restaurant we could have just gone somewhere else, you know? Give me a call soon, ok? Love you. _

**Second New Message:**

_ Aziraphale, it’s Anathema. My mom sent me a care package of pears today and I wanted to know if you would like some? There’s too many for me and Newt to eat on our own. Let me know when you can. _

**Third New Message:**

_ Angel, I passed by the shop earlier and saw the sign. Could you have possibly made it any bigger? Seriously, did someone try to buy a whole pile of your books? Either way, give me a call when you can, ok? _

**Fourth New Message: **

_ Angel, Crowley again. Look, it’s been two days and I still haven’t heard from you...if I did something wrong, could you tell me what it was? Anathema says you haven't given her a call either. Did something happen? If...if it was anyone from one of our old offices, you’d let me know, right? ...I just want to make sure you’re ok, Aziraphale. _

**Fifth New Message:**

_ Aziraphale, Anathema here. Please tell me what’s going on. Crowley’s been ‘round three times this week in as many days and, honestly, he has no idea why you haven’t called him back yet. If you can’t talk to him about what’s on your mind just...I guess just know I’m here to help too, ok? Newt’s going to be in the city tomorrow and I’m having him drop by with some tea for you. If he knocks, let him in, would you? _

**Sixth New Message:**

_ Uh, Mr. Angel- I mean Aziraph- I mean Mr. Aziraphale. It’s me. Um. Newton Pulsifer? Anathema said she let you know I was dropping something off? But, uh, your door is locked. And your windows look old and historical so, I don’t think you want them messed with, but I’m not sure how I could slip these in otherwise...wait a tick, _ ** _this_ ** _ should work- _

**Seventh New Message:**

_ Aziraphale, Anathema again. Newt had to get creative to get the teas into your shop and ended up sliding the sachets through the mail slot. There should be three of those and some chocolate we saw at the market last week that’s designed to be used in cocoa. So, hopefully you enjoy them…and, you know, we miss you Aziraphale. Come out soon, ok? _

**Eighth New Message:**

_ …I don’t want to invade your privacy, angel, but it’s been five days. No one’s seen hide nor hair of you. I miss you, you know? But I don’t know if I stepped over some boundaries along the way that need to be remedied, or if this is all something else. Just...please call when you can, ok? I love you. _

**Ninth New Message:**

_ Mr. Aziraphale, it’s Adam. Hey, I just wanted to call and ask if you were, you know, ok? The last couple of days, that light that’s always around you, it’s gone kind of quiet. Even quieter than its been as of late. And, look, I know I’m just a kid, but if you ever want to come over and play with Dog, or go on a walk with me and him, you’re welcome to anytime. He’s very good at cheering people up, or so I’m told. Either way, I hope to see you soon, Mr. Aziraphale. _

**Tenth New Message:**

_ Aziraphale, come on, you’re starting to ssssscare me…I can sense you in your shop, you’re right there. What are you doing in there all alone?! Please angel, if you just let me know what’s going on, I can help... _ ** _please_ ** _ let me help. _

**Eleventh New Message:**

_ That’s it. Aziraphale, the next time I call and this goes to voicemail, I swear to every blessed and damned fucking thing on Earth, I will be breaking down whatever doors I need to get in there, you understand angel? _

**<INCOMING CALL FROM ID ( Dearest )>**

** _The mailbox belonging to the number you have dialed is full. If you would like to hear other options, please press-_ **

==============

Crowley ended up not needing to break down a single door the get to Aziraphale. 

Where Newt and any customers who may have tried to ignore the huge “** _CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”_ ** sign in the window had failed, Crowley succeeded. 

Gripping the handle, the locking mechanisms shifted on their own accord to allow him entry. Part of him had always wondered if the bookshop had grown some level of sentience under the careful and loving watch of an angel. This series of events immediately put the debate to rest in Crowley’s personal opinion; answer being a big fat yes.

“Thanks.” He offered to the shop’s door as he turned the handle and stepped over the threshold. 

He almost immediately tripped over a large bar of chocolate and three large sachets of tea, all of which had apparently been fed through the door’s mailslot. 

Right, Anathema had sent Newt on a mission just the other day, of course.

He bent at the waist, scooped up the witch’s gifts, and set them on the closest flat surface. As he looked around, he could immediately tell that something wasn’t quite right. Crowley couldn’t place the feeling of wrongness to the shop, as he had never felt something like this before. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop always, from the day it opened, had movement to it. People coming and going, the sound of pages being flipped, Aziraphale organizing here and there after customers. There was always something going on within it.

But now...now there was a sort of eerie stillness to it that Crowley, frankly, found himself hating.

“Angel?” He called, making a beeline to the innermost sanctum of the store, worry filling him when Aziraphale didn’t immediately answer bac-

There, on a couch that _ definitely _ hadn’t been there during his last visit, partly bundled in one of the biggest blankets Crowley had ever seen, was Aziraphale. Laying on his left side, his hair mussed terribly, his cotton clad shoulders slowly rising and falling, eyes firmly closed. It took Crowley a moment to realize what he was witnessing, but when he did, a terrible confusion came with it. 

He was asleep. 

Aziraphale, Mr. “There’s Not Enough Hours In The Day As Is Crowley!”, was asleep.

Well, that would explain why no one could get a hold of him. But, still...

This wasn’t right. His angel never slept, didn’t really like to, had even said so himself multiple times. 

Why would he be doing so now?

Quietly, Crowley approached the large couch, kneeling beside the end that cradled Aziraphale’s head. Even with his glasses on, he could see that the angel’s face was stained with dried tear tracks. That realization made Crowley’s heart _ ache _ and infuriated him in the same turn. 

This is where he had gone? He had holed himself here, in his shop, _alone_, to cry and sleep whatever had hurt him away.

Some nasty part of him wanted to jerk the angel awake and ask for answers. To _ demand _ an answer for why he hadn’t come to him, why he wouldn’t just _ tell him what was wrong._

The rest of him loved the angel unconditionally. 

The rest knew that, whatever Aziraphale was going through, it was so much more pressing than his own bruised ego.

As scared as he had been when no one could get in touch with the angel, the thought of Aziraphale here, completely alone, hurting, was unforgivable. Now that he knew something was wrong, could see it with his own eyes and not have the angel try to divert his attention, Crowley would not be going anywhere until he knew how he could help.

So, after pulling his dark glasses from his face and tossing them to the floor, Crowley softly touched Aziraphale’s shoulder and carefully shook him.

“Aziraphale, angel, hey. You should wake up.” He said, his word filled with a gentle, yet firm, Intent.

Aziraphale still awoke slowly, even with Crowley’s infernal help. The angel’s eyes fluttered open after several seconds, found Crolwey’s own golden gaze, and stared for just a moment.

Then his lip wobbled and his eyes filled with tears.

Now, _ that _ was a bit of a disappointing reaction, if Crowley was being completely honest with himself. He’d expected maybe a “Oh hello, my dear” or even a “Sorry for disappearing for a week, I wanted to try napping”. 

Not this.

Never this.

“Angel-“

“Why in the world would you wake me up?!”

The angry frustration in Aziraphale’s voice wasn’t something Crowley had heard from him in a long time*. 

[* Not since that very first time he’d brought up the whole holy water topic.]

“Why would I wa- Aziraphale, I think a better thing to wonder about would be why you went to sleep for a week without letting anyone know.”

Aziraphale’s face tried for several emotions and failed at about half of them, before it attempted to settle on embarrassment, and then just collapsed straight into despair. 

The tears that had remained unshed finally fell as the angel squeezed his eyes shut, the salty water leaving behind new tracks in their wake. Crowley watched as Aziraphale, shoulders shaking, pulled the blanket around him further and turned his face away from the demon, trying to press himself into the cushions of the couch as much as possible. 

With an ugly, cold punch to the gut, Crowley realized Aziraphale was _ ashamed _ of his tears.

“Angel, no no no no, come on- don’t hide. Please, just talk to me.”

Aziraphale stopped his attempt to squirm into the couch itself, his head now the only thing not swallowed by his blanket. 

Crowley watched as he pulled some of the soft fabric to his face and dabbed at the offending tears he found there, the effort nearly in vain as his eyes overflowed again instantly.

His angel looked so miserable and small right then; nearly consumed by the fabric of the blanket, his eyes red with tears, the skin around them blotchy. It made his heart clench in a painful emotion he didn’t have a name for.

Crowley knew Aziraphale had seemed...off, as of late. 

Quieter than usual, less ready with a quip or comment. The demon had thought, perhaps, with the passing of the first anniversary of the Apocalypse-That-Couldn’t, that Aziraphale had simply grown contemplative.

But nothing could have prepared him for how _ wrong _ he had been. 

Without really meaning to, Crowley leaned forward just enough to rest his elbows on the edge of the couch, a handkerchief* in his hand with just a thought, and gently placed it where the angel’s own hand lay under the blanket.

[*Tartan patterned and everything, because the last time Crowley had seen Aziraphale cry this openly it had been just after WWII had ended, when they had both gotten so drunk that Aziraphale ended up talking about his time in Germany during the liberation of the concentration camps.]

“Thank you, my dear.” The voice was so soft, Crowley almost didn’t hear it.

“You’re welcome, angel.” He offered easily in return and waited.

If Aziraphale had taught Crowley anything, it was patience. He’d come to learn that silence did not always mean disinterest. That gathering the courage to speak was a thing many, _ many _ people had to do. That slowness to speak did not mean slowness of thought. 

So, Crowley waited while Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes, blew his nose, and gathered his courage.

“I am _so_ sorry.” Aziraphale said eventually, voice hoarse and ragged as he opened his eyes to look at Crowley, his words dripping with remorse.

“For what? Missing dinner last week? Forget that, it’s all water under the bridg-“

“It’s, uh, well it’s not about the dinner, Crowley it’s-“ a new wave of tears spilled down the apples of his cheeks, only to be angrily wiped away, “It’s for all of this- _ this _ nonsense! For heaven’s sake, I can’t even hold a conversation w-without crying right n-now. You must think me some sort of _ s-silly _ thing.”

Crowley looked, really **Looked**, at his angel for the first time in a while.

Aziraphale’s celestial essence has _ always _ been bright. Bright and blinding and so full of Love it had nearly hurt him the first time he’d peeked at it. It was what drew people to him initially, while everything else about him kept people orbiting that light.

But now. Oh, looking at it _now_, that previously blinding light was just a soft glow, no brighter than a young child’s night light. It was still there, still inherently divine, still warm and helpful and beautiful. But it was dimmed. Made smaller, withdrawn.

He hadn’t been around ethereal beings (other than Aziraphale) with any sort of consistency in a long time, but he was fairly certain _ this _ was not a good thing for the angel equivalent of a soul to look like.

“You’re only silly to me when you’re trying to be, Aziraphale. You know that.” He does everything he can to fill his words with all the affection he has for the angel as he says them.

Aziraphale tried to offer him a small smile at his words and Crowley watched as it did not fully meet his eyes. He had to know. He had to figure out how to help.

“Angel”, he continued, shifting his weight to kneel more comfortably, “please tell me what’s wrong. And don’t try to tell me it’s nothing or that you’re fine. Because this” he gestured to the couch and Aziraphale himself, “tells me that you’re not. You’ve been different the last couple of weeks. Withdrawn, even. I’m worried for you. All of us are worried for you. Did something happen? Because, I swear if any angel or demon-”

“No one did _ anything _ to me! I-I-I just, I just _ get _ like this every now and then, Crowley.” The rising panic in Aziraphale’s voice was plain as day.

Again, that certainly wasn’t what he had expected to hear.

“What?” He observed intelligently.

Aziraphale merely pressed his eyes to the handkerchief, a stifled groan wracking his body.

“Oh, angel, shhh. It’s ok, I just,” Crowley did reach out then, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s soft, short hair, “I didn’t get what you meant. Can you explain it once more, please? I want to understand what you’re going through, Aziraphale. But I don’t know what I need to understand if you won’t talk to me.”

Handkerchief still pressed to his eyes, Aziraphale gave a small shake of the head as he answered,

“I hardly understand it myself, Crowley, let alone know how to explain it.”

“Then, ok, we can start small. How do you feel right now?”

“Bad. Awful. Horrendous.”

He hummed for a moment, low in his chest, the hand in Aziraphale’s hair still gently offering its small comfort.

“Anything to add to that?”

Aziraphale shifted his head slightly, giving the demon access to more of his hair to touch. 

“It feels like...like something is trying to choke me from the inside out.”

Crowley practiced his patience again then and there, and remained quiet.

“...it feels like there’s this...this weight that settles into my very bones and wraps around my heart, Crowley. I-I eventually don’t feel hungry, I don’t enjoy the things I normally do, and I turn into a blubbering mess like this. It makes it so hard for me to function, when I’m this way, my dear.”

The fingers in Aziraphale’s hair faltered for just a half moment, so fleeting it wouldn’t be noticed by most. Crowley had heard words far, _far_ too similar from humans who attended the support groups he made friends at* for him not to understand what his angel was describing.

[*He found that the sorts of people who ended up in any number of programs (AA, Cocaine Anonymous, Mental Health Support, what have you) were usually pretty hysterical, always ready for some petty mischief, and tended to be the most willing of the humans he kept company with to overlook some of the more _ occult _ things that happened around him. They weren’t a bad group of people at all, mostly just sad.]

“So, what, this has happened to you before?” Crowley asked softly.

Aziraphale nodded.

Using the hand not in the angel’s hair, Crowley gently pulled Aziraphale’s hands from his face by his wrists. Tears, big and fat and endless, still clung to his face and sprung from his eyes the moment Crowley moved the handkerchief. He held his angel’s gaze, unflinching and determined to find the pain that was dimming his soul so much, and pluck it out. Aziraphale’s eyes, their normal beautiful blue, had never looked so sad before. Not that Crowley has ever seen, anyways.

It broke his heart into more pieces than he thought possible.

“How many times?”

A shrug and the angel was trying to avert his eyes once more.

“Aziraphale, please.”

Frustration took over his counterpart’s features again as he gave his answer,

“What do you want me to say, Crowley? That I lost count after Rome fell? Or- or that I am _ terrified _ of the possibility that I am the only otherworldly thing in all of creation that gets- gets like this and, oh, I don’t know what you would even call it but I _ hate _ it-”

“Depression, Aziraphale. I think you’d call this a depression.”

Aziraphale gave a dismissive wave of the hand from under the blanket, the effectiveness of the gesture to convey said dismissal entirely lost. 

“That happens to _ humans,_ Crowley. I’m not human. It’s not _ meant _for something like that to happen to me. It’s that simple.”

Crowley bit his tongue, silencing the words that want to spill from his mouth.

_ It’s not that simple. _ ** _We’ve_ ** _ never been that simple. I’m not meant to love you, but I do. You weren’t meant to give away your sword, but you did. Adam wasn’t supposed to adore the Earth, but he does. It’s all fucking ineffable. _

Instead, he chose something that, hopefully, might not immediately bring more tears to his angel’s eyes.

“We might as well be human in some ways at this point; our corporations are almost entirely human anyways, really just different enough to accommodate what makes us otherworldly. Who’s to say yours or mine haven’t picked up on a few bad habits from being around the natives for so long?” Crowley said, finally breaking eye contact with the angel, giving him some semblance of privacy while he digested his words.

Several moments passed before Aziraphale spoke again.

“I guess...I’m just...shouldn’t this be something I can endure on my own?”

“I think there’s a difference between enduring something and suffering from it, Aziraphale.”

He looked back at his angel, caught his eyes once more, and was glad to see his tears had stopped, so focused was he on the demon’s next words. Crowley stopped the hand moving in Aziraphale’s hair, deciding instead to move it to his cheek to gently brush away the salt that still clung to his skin.

“You know, I think to endure something, that _ something _inherently has to be a helpful thing. An experience. Something you grow from. And, angel, seeing you like this...you’re suffering here, alone, unnecessarily. That’s what this is.”

A beat; a pause.

“_ Oh. _”

Crowley wasn’t going to hold the mono-syllabic response against Aziraphale, certainly not when he was like this.

“Angel, tell me _ please_, how long have you been dealing with this on your own?”

Another pause, one that felt like an eternity, before he answered,

“Since right after the Flood receded.”

Crowely could feel the back of his eyes begin to burn with his own tears, just the slightest bit, at those words.

“...why didn’t you say anything?” 

There must have been something watery in his own voice because, no sooner had Crowley uttered those words, did Aziraphale press the tartan fabric to his face again.

Crowley was ready to wait all day to hear what the angel needed to say, but he didn’t have to. A few seconds later, Aziraphale pulled the handkerchief from his eyes again, and spoke, voice quivering with unshed tears the entire time.

“I just, um. I suppose that I thought, you know, that I might be a burden. Or a bore. Like this. I-It’s always been, my dear, that it simply gets to a point where even _I _don’t like my own company. Not when I’m behaving so poorly. That’s why I didn’t mention it sooner. That’s why I went to sleep, Crowley, because I can’t stand _being_ like this. I tried to function for as long as I could, but then...I just got tired. I got so _tired_ my dear, I couldn’t even muster up the energy to cancel our dinner plans. It just... it seemed better this way, when I thought about it. You, out there, enjoying life as you should.” 

_ And me, in here, kept away until I’m better. Until I’m myself again. _

Crowley heard his angel’s unspoken words and that was what finally pulled the tears from his golden eyes.

“Angel, fuckin’ hell, _come_ **_on_**,” Crowley whispered softly, his voice cracking wetly, “you should know by now that any life without you to keep me a _little_ honest wouldn’t be the least bit enjoyable. I’d much rather stay here, with you, _as you are_. And when you’re ready to head out, I will be too.”

That, apparently, was what finally broke whatever vestiges of control Aziraphale had over his tears. Curling in on himself, a broken sob burst forth from the flood Aziraphale had been keeping at bay for so long. The sound was raw and anguished, sounding viscerally like someone grieving fiercely enough to die from it.

Crowley said nothing, simply acted. He snapped, and several things happened all at once.

First, the couch was replaced with a comfortable and large bed, with Aziraphale still wrapped in his blanket/pillow combo to one side of it.

Second, Crowley’s street clothes had changed into his normal sleeping attire of black sleep pant and tank top; comfortable and easy to move in.

Third, his phone sent a text to Anathema that he was with Aziraphale, that he would call in the next day or so, and then immediately shut itself off.

He placed a knee on the edge of the bed, looking to the blanketed lump. Climbing onto the mattress, he reached out to Aziraphale’s shaking form and slowly, as to give the angel plenty of time to pull away if need be, placed a hand to his shoulder-

But instead of flinching away, Aziraphale leaned into the touch immediately, pulling himself free of the thick blanket just enough so he could grab at Crowley’s torso, pulling him downwards, to him. The demon fell to the bed, arms wrapping around his hurting loved one, Aziraphale’s pain a tangible thing rolling off of him now that they were holding one another. 

Chest to chest, with the angel’s face nestled in the crook of Crowley’s neck as sob after sob wracked his body, his arms tightening around the demon, Crowley could feel why Aziraphale’s light had looked so dim earlier. 

There was a shroud over it; some dark, old woven mesh that had been built up over the years and was held together by repeated agony.

He dare not try to touch it, not yet, not now, lest he hurt Aziraphale further. It was something that had been made out of thousands of little strands of self-doubts, painful words, and so much second-hand tragedy*, that Crowley wouldn’t know where to start in the unraveling process.

But that was for another day. Here and now, he had his love to soothe.

[*Crowley knew that Aziraphale took human suffering just as seriously as he did. Than again, Heaven had always frowned upon outward displays of any emotion other than Love and Happiness. He’d just never realized Aziraphale had possibly been internalizing it.]

Now that Crowley knew his angel was in pain, there was nothing on Heaven, Earth, or Hell that would stop him from helping however he could.

If that meant, for tonight, he held Aziraphale as he sobbed through an old, aching pain in his chest, than so be it. 

If that meant tomorrow they woke up and, for the first of many times, made crepes* together, he would be there.

[*Crowley would make sure Aziraphale ate at least a few bites of food. Eventually, the angel would start remarking on the flavors again as his taste returned to him.]

If that meant getting Anathema consistently* from Tadfield to the shop so Aziraphale could enjoy her company, especially on the days when stepping outside felt like too much for the angel, he would do so.

[*If he could replace Dick Turpin without Newton Pulsifer nervously hounding him about returning it until his very last mortal breath, Crowley would do so without hesitation. Nonetheless, with the car’s less than stellar performance, Crowley really did prefer that Anathema get a ride from his beloved and pristine Bently, instead of that three wheeled clown car.]

If that meant coordinating with Aziraphale’s three favorite restaurants to get a multi-course meal unlike any other to his beloved at the end of a particularly bad day for him, he would do so without hesitation.

If any of it helped, even just the smallest bit, he would gladly do it. Again and again and again, he would do what he could to help Aziraphale feel better.

Because, now that he knew about the pain his angel had been carrying all on his own, he was damned well going to make sure he was there to bear that weight with him.

Now that he knew, he would help as best as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: spoiledspine
> 
> Come talk with me there if you'd like!


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